


if you have the stomach

by witching



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Arguing, Emotionally Repressed, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Season/Series 03, canon-typical cannibalism references, canon-typical magic spying, post MAG92
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: in which jon and martin have a difficult but much-needed conversation, something they're remarkably bad at doing. filling in the blanks to explain how later awkward interactions came about.(martin: yeah, we talked. not long, he - i think he thinks that the distance keeps us safe, you know? like, if he just makes sure that we’re not involved, we’re somehow fine. // MAG98)(jon: i talked to martin a few weeks ago...georgie: did you? or did he talk to you, while you tried to find a way to escape? // MAG99)(jon: i'm sorry, martin. i know we haven't talked much, since... sasha and everything. // MAG102)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 22
Kudos: 198





	if you have the stomach

_say the word & i’ll burn for ten days.  
it’s bloodsport. it’s a witching moon. it’s a  
hunt through the woods with nothing to show  
for it. you look like you’ve eaten the sun, like  
you drank so much sunlight you’re drowning in it.  
you can have my heart if you have the stomach to  
take it. kiss me hard enough to invert me.  
  
// yves olade, "when rome falls" _

* * *

It’s exhausting, just walking back down to the archives after the events of the day, the ordeal of it. Jon should go home – well, Georgie’s place – not here, anyway – but he can’t. If he leaves, then he’ll have to process it all, and he really can’t afford to do that right now, not if he wants to keep what little sanity he may have left. 

So he goes straight from his conversation with Elias down to the archives, prepared to record a statement or catch up on reading over research files or something, anything at all to stop his encroaching breakdown. He doesn’t have time for a breakdown. 

He doesn’t really expect Martin to be there. After everything that’s gone down, he’s not sure what to expect, but he had assumed that the others wouldn’t stick around, that they wouldn’t want to be there any longer than they absolutely had to. But Martin is there, leaning against the wall nearest Jon’s desk, and he just _stares_ when Jon walks in.

“Oh. Er – hi, Martin,” he mutters, recognizing that it would be strange and impolite to just ignore that he’s there. He feels like he should say something else, something substantial, but what can he say? It’s all inadequate. It’s all bullshit.

Apparently, Martin thinks it’s bullshit, too, because he doesn’t respond to Jon’s awkward greeting. He only stares. Jon starts to shuffle through papers, trying to make it clear that he’s about to get some work done in the hopes that Martin will get the hint, but he doesn’t. After a long minute of self-conscious busywork, when Jon has just about resigned himself to recording a statement and pretending Martin isn’t there, he finally speaks. 

“I was the only one who believed in you, you know.” 

Martin’s tone is cold and bitter in a way that Jon has never heard from him before. Looking at him properly for the first time since he walked in, Jon realizes that he has an expression to match. He’s seen Martin get frustrated with him, of course, and exasperated and snippy and mopey and all manners of upset, but this is another level of anger. A quiet, terrifying anger. 

There really isn’t much that scares Jon these days. He tells himself he’s not afraid of the way Martin is looking at him, but he is, in a way. He can’t admit to the fear because then he would have to admit that what he’s actually feeling is not a fear of Martin or his anger, but a fear of Martin leaving. In the long term, that is, not leaving here and now, but leaving _Jon,_ in a way that matters.

But then, saying nothing won’t make him stay.

“I know,” Jon says in a voice like a bent feather. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Martin answers without missing a beat. He sounds exhausted. “I mean, yeah, I guess you are. Maybe you are, but I don’t care.”

Jon swallows the urge to apologize again. Swallows the urge to fall to his knees in supplication. Swallows a lot of urges. He doesn’t know what to do, but he knows that every option that crosses his mind is the wrong answer.

He sighs. “What do you want me to say, Martin?”

“What do I – I don’t want you to _say_ anything,” Martin snaps, his voice wavering as he begins to lose his calm and composure. “I want you to act like you can _see_ me.”

“I see you,” Jon promises fervently. “I see you.”

“Do you? Really?” There are tears in Martin’s eyes now, and _oh,_ Jon can’t stand that. Can’t stand that he caused it, can’t stand the way Martin’s voice breaks as he continues berating him. “You say that, but how can I believe it? Because you’ve been missing for two months, and everyone kept telling me you were a murderer, and I didn’t believe them, not even once, not even a little bit. I believed in _you!_ And you come back now and just – just clear everything all up and expect it to be okay? It’s not okay, Jon. _I’m_ not okay.”

It’s painful to hear, but Jon figures he deserves a little bit of that pain. Or a lot of it. All of it, really. “I’m sorry,” he says again, feeling impotent. 

Martin drops his hands from where they’ve been fidgeting with his collar, back down to his sides like lead weights. “I don’t need you to be sorry,” he says flatly, and then continues, louder, angrier. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to understand how – how _hard_ it’s been for us without you around. How scared and confused and tense we’ve all been, and how I came to your defense over and over, and, and maybe you could be a little bit _grateful,_ or –”

“Of _course_ I’m grateful,” Jon cuts him off, frantic and shouting. “Of _course_ I am! I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, I’m grateful for you believing in me, I’m grateful to have you in my corner. I fucking _value_ you, is that what you want to hear?”

Martin blinks at him for a moment. “Well, yeah, sort of.”

“It’s the truth, alright. Do you think – what, if I tell you that, then everything will be okay?” Jon switches repeatedly between crossing his arms and placing his hands on his hips, but neither feels right. He shoves his hands in his pockets with rather too much force before looking back up at Martin. 

“It won’t be okay,” he continues, his voice dark and ragged. “All of you are in danger already, just by being here, and I don’t – I don’t want to even _begin_ to imagine how much danger you’d be in if anyone knew how much I value you. Do you understand? Can you understand that?”

“That’s daft,” Martin replies bluntly. “We’re _in_ this, Jon. We need to stick together, or what’s the point?”

Jon closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, digs his fingernails into his palms. “I don’t want to lose anyone else,” he whispers, broken and drained. “I won’t do that to you.”

A beat passes, and Jon has to open his eyes to be entirely sure that Martin hasn’t simply walked out of the room. He hasn’t. He’s standing there, staring at Jon like – like something he can’t describe. Like he’s speaking a foreign language, and like he’s doing it on purpose just to fuck with Martin, and like the only phrase Martin can halfway understand translates to something he doesn’t want to hear.

He looks at Jon like that for longer than is strictly comfortable, and then he speaks in a low, grave tone, his eyes darkening. “I made my choice. I belong here, alright? _You’re_ not putting me in danger, _you’re_ not forcing me to stay, you’re not _doing_ anything to me.” 

Martin pauses, takes a look around the room as if he might find something to help him get his point through Jon’s thick skull. There’s nothing, of course; there are things that even the archives don’t contain. He laughs without humor, runs a hand through his hair. He half expects Jon to contradict him, to argue with him, but he stays silent, watching Martin with wide, expectant eyes, so Martin presses on.

“It’s just… you talk about losing people,” he says, giving Jon a pitying look, “but what are you really losing, if you won’t let anyone in?”

“Your _life_ is in danger,” Jon hisses at him. “I won’t let you get _hurt_ because of me –”

He cuts himself off as Martin takes a purposeful step towards him, shaking his head and heaving a long-suffering sigh. “You don’t get it,” Martin bites out, very close to Jon’s face by this point. “You just don’t get it, do you? If anything happens to me because of – _whatever_ it is that’s going on around here, then it won’t be your fault. You’re not Elias, you’re not the archives. And the only way that _you_ can hurt me is by pretending not to care, when we both know you do.”

When Jon doesn’t say anything in response, Martin draws his brows together, his lips turning down, more distressed than angry as he persists, “Dammit, Jon, you _do!_ Why can’t you just say it?”

Jon doesn’t rightly know the answer to that question. He knows he’s afraid, but that’s not a good answer. Not nearly good enough. He knows he’s inexperienced with this type of thing – having friends, that is, and caring about people – but he also knows that if anyone could gently guide him through it, it would be Martin, if only Jon would let him. He knows he’s positively ashamed of himself, but continuing to disappoint Martin will only exacerbate that particular issue.

He really is trying very hard. Unfortunately, all this looks like from Martin’s point of view is Jon standing there with his mouth open, blinking like a dumbass, refusing to speak. 

“Please,” Martin tries desperately, his voice breaking. “Jon, _please_ say it.”

And Jon can’t. He can’t say it. It’s like there’s something in his throat, suffocating him and blocking all the words from escaping, keeping them locked up inside his chest. So he does what he hopes is the next best thing: he grabs two fists full of the front of Martin’s shirt, yanks him forward, and kisses him.

There’s a second where Martin freezes up in shock before his mind catches up with the moment. He makes a soft noise against Jon’s mouth, all the tension rushing out of him in an instant as he melts into the kiss, lets his lips move easily with Jon’s, lets them part for him. 

It's messy. Jon's never done so much in the way of kissing, but he does enjoy it, as long as there's not an expectation of other things. It's just that he's not met many people he actually _likes_ to that degree. He never would have guessed, a year or two ago, that Martin would be that person, but – well, unexpected things happen a lot around here, and sometimes things change. 

Things _have_ changed.

What is exactly as expected is that Jon's kissing is messy and inexperienced, and Martin's is frenzied and overeager, and it’s altogether nothing close to perfect. Martin acts on a moment of boldness, takes a step forward and wraps his arms around Jon’s neck, and Jon reacts first by tensing up, then by moving his own hands up to Martin’s cheeks. It’s close, closer than they’ve ever been; it occurs to Jon that he doesn’t know if they’ve ever touched before.

That’s not a question for Martin. Martin remembers every time their fingers have brushed as he passed Jon a cup of tea, every time he’s nudged Jon’s shoulder when he was accidentally standing just a tad too close, the time he tripped over his own feet and Jon caught him by the elbow and steadied him, the time he insisted upon staying late with Jon to make sure he didn’t work himself to death and Jon fell asleep on his shoulder. He remembers it all with crystal certainty, and none of it could have prepared him for this.

 _This_ being a chaotic and graceless clash of lips and tongues and teeth, quick breaths and eyes squeezed shut, sucking and licking and biting. Jon thinks absently that it’s almost like they’re trying to devour each other's faces – only that image is not one that really works for him, given some of the things he's read. 

He pushes Martin away abruptly, stumbles backwards and drops his hands as if he's been burned, inhales a sharp gasp that's halfway between laughing and retching. Distantly, he can hear Martin asking if he's okay, but he's not breathing steadily enough to answer. It takes him a while to regain that kind of composure, at which point he looks up apologetically. 

Martin gapes at him, and Jon can't tell if he looks more afraid or hurt or utterly confused when he sputters, "What just happened?"

“Nothing,” Jon says almost reflexively, then laughs quietly to himself. “Sorry, not _nothing,_ sorry. Obviously it wasn’t nothing.”

“Obviously!” Martin spits the word back at him, his voice high-pitched and desperately bewildered. 

Jon winces, mumbles another useless apology. Martin continues to watch him and wait for an explanation, shaking with nerves and shock, and Jon can’t really blame him. He steels himself, takes a breath, tries not to start laughing yet again.

“I just… something happened,” he says, looking determinedly at the floor, “that made me not very keen on continuing… what we were doing.” He pauses and gives a vigorous shake of his head as he realizes how it sounds, how horribly unhelpful it is to be vague at a time like this. Martin deserves the truth; more than that, he deserves clarity, he deserves trust, he deserves to not have to wonder at what Jon is thinking. 

“What I mean is, I was thinking about… eating your face,” Jon begins to explain, very aware of his own face heating up with a furious blush as well as Martin’s small squeak of surprise. “And then I was thinking about the, erm. Some of the statements I’ve read. With the… skin, and meat, and… you know. It was just a bit. Er. Unappetizing.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Martin replies in a choked voice, clearly experiencing a similar combination of horror and disgust and amusement to what Jon is feeling. "So…?"

"I think I should go."

"Really? For that?" Martin doesn't sound angry, just baffled, with a tiny bit of almost hurt underneath. It’s clear that he doesn’t think that he’s gotten the full story, but he won’t accuse Jon of anything outright, especially if it means voicing his suspicion that he’s done something wrong to make Jon leave. "I mean, you _read_ the statements just fine, but _thinking_ about them for one second makes you run away?"

Jon sighs. "It's not just that," he admits, and he sees Martin deflate a bit at what he perceives as confirmation of his unspoken conclusion. "It's just, well – I also remembered that, er –" Jon lowers his voice to a whisper before continuing, "– Elias can _see_ us."

The newfound horror at this reminder washes over Martin in waves. He imagines Elias sitting in his office and watching them, and it’s not a good picture. Maybe he would like to believe that Elias has better things to worry about, but he knows too much to be reassured by that thought; even if this small encounter isn’t the stuff of blackmail, Martin is aware that Elias always has eyes in a lot of unlikely places. He stands there for a long few seconds with his jaw hanging open, until eventually he manages to express the feeling with a rather underwhelming "Oh."

"Yeah," Jon agrees with a sympathetic nod. "So I think… it's probably best to call it. Not sure what else there is to do here."

Martin’s cheeks redden even further, if that’s possible. He can think of a few things they could do; it can’t make anything worse, surely, if the damage has been done already, if Elias has seen them already. But something, the same thing in him that stopped him from voicing any of those feelings for the years that he’s known Jon, stops him now as well. "Right,” he says a bit sheepishly.

"I'll just – go, then, I suppose,” Jon mumbles, embarrassed and uncertain. “But, er, I'll be in touch."

Martin nods, unable to look directly at Jon, unwilling to look in his eyes and see whatever emotion is in them. He knows it won’t make the situation better, and it certainly won’t be anything that makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. Martin’s never been one for cynicism or pessimism, but he knows Jon well enough to know that things aren’t going to suddenly change between them after this.

"Yeah,” he mutters at last, realizing he’s gone too long without responding, “okay."

For a moment, Jon cocks his head to the side and looks rather sadly at Martin before shaking his head and walking away. He's just about reached the door when Martin calls after him in a small voice that forces Jon to turn around and face him again.

“Jon.” Martin hesitates, unsure what he wants to say, what he _can_ say. Jon waits patiently, and maybe that gives him the courage or the strength or whatever he needs in order to voice the desperate, fervent plea that overwhelms his mind every time he has to say goodbye to Jon. "Just – be safe, okay?"

Astonishingly, Jon _smiles_ at him. It’s a sad, tired smile, accompanied by a soft exhale that could be mistaken for a laugh, and it’s the most Martin has seen him show joy in a long time. He looks down at the floor to blink back the faint, stinging threat of tears before lifting his head, meeting Martin’s eyes again. “Okay, Martin,” he says, his voice soft but serious, as if making a sacred promise. “You, too.”

And Jon leaves. Martin hangs behind to give him a head start, stays there for a few minutes and sheds some traitorous, unbidden tears, and then he leaves as well, trying not to think about it all too hard.

**Author's Note:**

> you ever say fuck it and write fic for a podcast you haven't finished listening to and then post it without having anyone else read thru it or reading any other fic first to get a feel of things. bc i sure do. my heart needed to let martin speak i couldn't resist. please give me compliments


End file.
